“Jack? The post-mortem. Apparently it was really appalling. Really…” Her words’fell away.
“I know.”
“You spoke to Jack?”
“No.” I took another cigarette from her pack, lighting it tip to tip.
Bowie gave way to Elton.
Kathryn stood up and went to the bar again.
George Greaves raised a cigarette my way from another table. I nodded back. The place was beginning to fill up.
I leant back and stared up at the tinsel and the fairy lights.
“Mr Gannon been in?”
I leant forward too quickly, my stomach and head spinning. “What?”
“Barry been in?”
“No,” I said.
A skinny boy in a maroon suit turned and left.
“Who was that?” said Kathryn, setting down the glasses.
“Fuck knows. Mate of Barry’s. The post-mortem’s the lead then?”
She put her hand on mine again. “Yeah.”
I moved my hand. “Fuck. Is it good?”
“Yeah.” Kathryn reached for her cigarettes but her pack was empty.
I took a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “Anything else big?”
“Fire at an old folks home killed eighteen.”
“That’s not the lead?”
“No. Clare is.”
“Fuck. Anything else?”
“Cambridge Rapist. Cup draw. Leeds have got Cardiff.”
“Nowt about that gypsy camp on the way in, one just off the M1?”
“No. Not that I’ve heard. Why?”
“Nothing. Heard there’d been a fire or something, that’s all.”
I lit another cigarette and sipped at my pint.
Kathryn took another cigarette from my pack.
“What about the white van? Did you turn anything up?” I asked, putting my cigarettes back in my pocket, trying to remember what kind of car Graham Goldthorpe had driven.
“I’m sorry love. I haven’t had the time. I don’t think there’s anything to it though. The police would have mentioned it and I’m sure it’s not in any of the reports.”
“Mr Ridyard was pretty fucking sure.”
“Well maybe they were just humouring them.”
“They should fucking burn in hell if they were.”
Kathryn’s eyes were shining through the low light, on the verge of tears.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Did you meet Barry?” Her voice was shaking.
“Mm. The post-mortem, how much detail did he put in?”
Kathryn downed her drink. “None. How much do you bloody think?”
“Do you know if Johnny Kelly was playing for Trinity today?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Gaz say what happened?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Gaz didn’t say why?”
“Nobody knows.” Kathryn picked up her empty glass and put it back down again.
“The press conference is tomorrow?”
Kathryn picked up her empty pack of cigarettes. “Of course.”
“What time?”
“I think they said ten. But I’m not sure.” She pulled out the silver foil from inside the packet.
“What did Hadden say about the post-mortem?”
“I don’t know Eddie. I don’t bloody know.” Her eyes were full again, her face red. “Edward, can I please have a cigarette?”
I took out my pack. “There’s only one.”
Kathryn sniffed hard. “Forget it. I’ll get some more.”
“Don’t be daft. Take it.”
“Did you go to Castleford?” She was rooting around in her bag.
“Yeah.”
“You saw Marjorie Dawson then? What’s she like?”
I lit my last cigarette. “I didn’t see her.”
“Eh?” Kathryn was counting out change for the cigarette machine.
“I saw Paula Garland.”
“Jesus, you never. Fucking hell.”
Her mother was sleeping, her father was snoring, and I was on my knees on her bedroom floor.
Kathryn pulled me up, bringing my mouth up to hers as we toppled back on to her bed.
I was thinking of Southern girls called Sophie or Anna.
Her tongue pushed down harder on mine, the taste of her own cunt in her mouth pushing her harder. I used my left foot to free her legs of her knickers.
I was thinking of Mary Goldthorpe.
She took my cock in her right hand and guided it in. I pulled back, using my own right hand to move my cock clockwise around the lips of her cunt.
I was thinking of Paula Garland.
She dug her nails into my arse, wanting me in deep. I went in hard, my stomach suddenly hollow and sick.
I was thinking of Clare Kemplay.
“Eddie,” she whispered.
I kissed her hard, moving from her mouth to her chin and on to her neck.
“Eddie?” There was a change in her voice.
I kissed her hard, moving from her neck to her chin and back to her mouth.
“Eddie!” A change not for the better.
I stopped kissing her.
“I’m pregnant.”
“What do you mean?” I said, knowing exactly what she fucking meant.
“I’m pregnant.”
I slipped out of her cunt and on to my back. “What are we going to do?” she whispered, putting her ear to my chest. “Get rid of it.”
Fuck, I still felt drunk.
It was almost 2 AM when the taxi dropped me off.
Fuck, I thought as I turned the key in the back door. There was a light still on in the back room.
Fuck, I needed a cup of tea and a sandwich.
I switched on the kitchen light and began to root through the fridge for some ham.
Fuck, I ought to at least say hello.
My mother was sat in her rocking chair, staring at the black TV.
“Do you want a cup of tea, Mum?”
“Your friend Barry…”
“What about him?”
